May 19th, 1878.—­Criticism is above all a gift, an intuition, a matter of tact and flair; it cannot be taught or demonstrated,—­it is an art.  Critical genius means an aptitude for discerning truth under appearances or in disguises which conceal it; for discovering it in spite of the errors of testimony, the frauds of tradition, the dust of time, the loss or alteration of texts.  It is the sagacity of the hunter whom nothing deceives for long, and whom no ruse can throw off the trail.  It is the talent of the Juge d’Instruction who knows how to interrogate circumstances, and to extract an unknown secret from a thousand falsehoods.  The true critic can understand everything, but he will be the dupe of nothing, and to no convention will he sacrifice his duty, which is to find out and proclaim truth.  Competent learning, general cultivation, absolute probity, accuracy of general view, human sympathy, and technical capacity,—­how many things are necessary to the critic, without reckoning grace, delicacy, savoir vivre, and the gift of happy phrasemaking!

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May 22D, 1879 (Ascension Day).—­Wonderful and delicious weather.  Soft, caressing sunlight,—­the air a limpid blue,—­twitterings of birds; even the distant voices of the city have something young and springlike in them.  It is indeed a new birth.  The ascension of the Savior of men is symbolized by the expansion, this heavenward yearning of nature....  I feel myself born again; all the windows of the soul are clear.  Forms, lines, tints, reflections, sounds, contrasts, and harmonies, the general play and interchange of things,—­it is all enchanting!

In my courtyard the ivy is green again, the chestnut-tree is full of leaf, the Persian lilac beside the little fountain is flushed with red and just about to flower; through the wide openings to the right and left of the old College of Calvin I see the Saleve above the trees of St. Antoine, the Voirons above the hill of Cologny; while the three flights of steps which, from landing to landing, lead between two high walls from the Rue Verdaine to the terrace of the Tranchees, recall to one’s imagination some old city of the south, a glimpse of Perugia or of Malaga.

All the bells are ringing.  It is the hour of worship.  A historical and religious impression mingles with the picturesque, the musical, the poetical impressions of the scene.  All the peoples of Christendom—­all the churches scattered over the globe—­are celebrating at this moment the glory of the Crucified.